Saturday, May 24, 2008

I love it that she takes me out walking at night (or very late evening, depending on the hours you keep) particularly now that it's not getting dark anymore (although, as I said, we're still getting stars, so it's nowhere near as light as it can - and will - get. The other night I checked my claim and at twenty-five minutes to midnight I could count three stars, and forty-five minutes later I could make out all of the Big Dipper, but it's a blue darkness, not a black one, and when you get away from the street lights you realise you can see perfectly well without them - better, even, or certainly better further. Darker than dusk, lighter than darkness). Of course I loved her taking me out on wintry nights as well, but that's right beside the point at the moment and seems to belong to a different life, because right now we plunge ourselves into the night of light darkness, together, and because it's late and there are few, if any, people about and I trust her, I will let her off the leash so she can explore the night. The smells of the kevätkesän yö, spring-summer night are heady in her nose, in both our noses, actually (and yes, we have words for the between-seasons times of the year - kevätkesä, syyskesä, syystalvi, kevättalvi. It's very useful). She will leap and run and roll on the grass a little, but what she loves most is following her nose, unravelling the spaghetti of scents which evidently wiggle along the ground, her chunky-ish bottom swinging amusingly from side to side as she trots along, all determined and purposeful, in concentric circles and spirals, with sudden twirls and turns and steps back, and all the while I hear her snifi-snifi-snifi-FHRHRFF, the latter being the huff of her outbreath with which, I fancy, she empties her nose of the scents she's gathered, to make space for more. She can go on like this forever, it seems, and all I can hear is her and the nightingales (there are at least three in the neighbourhood), because I am good at blocking out the drone-hum of the motorway a mile or so off, and it's anyway not all that busy at this hour, and I love her and am, like her, loving the night and its smells (although I prefer the bird cherry blossoms, the grass, the nettles, the fir trees, to the hares' and rabbits' tracks which she is so drawn to and I can't detect, and I'm so not letting on that I too wander around with a snifi-snifi-FHRHF nose-noise).

12 comments:

Phew. I had to pause for breath after that, so swimming is it with quickfire thoughts and observations.

I have loved seeing dogs play on the beach this weekend - I'd like to think you can tell the ones that don't live by the seaside, such is their excitement at being on sand and being able to splash in the sea. I do wonder though if most dogs will be just as excited whether it's new to them or not.

I love the evocation of the night-time summer sky - I must head that far north sometime, I've always wanted to experience it.

I must add though that I really do love the humming of the motorway in the distance, for many reasons: the sound is a comfort and carries many resonances for me.

Out-of-breath housut, you should go cycling with the old folks (and The Fit Dr Why?) up in the top post (in fact, I thought you are a bit of a cycler already?). If you are made breathless by my writing (thank you v. much, that was a fine compliment, young man - and "quickfire", too, when I was at most hoping it would give an impression of sniffling about) you must be in (even) worse state than I.

This must have been the Gower Peninsula dogs you watched, you lucky thing (and them, obviously). We have a serious and dire shortage of proper beaches to run on around these parts (although our nights are white, so at the moment we don't care - not as much, anyway). There are times when I miss my lost Wales very achingly, and it is in particular (I think) the openness, the I-can-see-for-miles-and-miles (and not the The Who song) wind-sweptedness of it all. I think the beautiful Ms Dogot would love it, too. But I'm not making her go in the cargo belly of an aeroplane, no.

And I think I can see why someone would have a liking for motorway humdrones (you like that sort of stuff in music, too, don't you?) - it is a city-romantic thing - but currently my mind is veering away from cities and hankering after an untouched countryside. Feel totally free to elaborate on these resonances you mention, though.

Hi again ms mr, you're right, it was indeed the dogs of the Gower that I refer to. And I know very much what you mean about those open spaces - it invites (or rather, stirs) all sorts of feelings and thoughts, and sometimes a beautiful sense of nothing. I'm not surprised you miss Wales, I've only good memories of there (though only from visiting, not living there).

You're half right, dare I say, as regards the motorway: very perceptive as regards the connection with music - in fact, I hadn't really thought about that when I was writing the comment, but it's very true nonetheless.

But it isn't a city thing for me: it may sound odd but it's more about the countryside, in which one has the space to actually hear that distant hum. The resonances are, for the most part, those that I described in what I think was the first post of mine that you commented on, entitled "Home"...all about early memories of walking round the paths and fields and what effect it had on me. I don't think I mentioned the distant hum in that post, but it's definitely another element of that whole thing for me. I'd link to the post but I just don't feel like fiddling with html tags right at this moment.

I read your Gower entry, housut, and congratulate you on finding a few days to enjoy, as you said, "the luxury of just being". It is brilliant, is it not? And somehow the countryside seems to allow for this better than cities (and believe me, I try in the city, too, but it's never quite the same).

I remember the feel of your "Home" post, and liking it, it was lovely, although some dork came and misquoted you to yourself in the comments section. Some people, eh.

I do agree ms mr, the countryside is the place for such things - there's a definite correlation in my mind between a sense of space externally, and what it opens up internally (not in a surgical sense either).

With a nod to your earlier comment about cycling, one reason that I do indulge in said activity is that it gets me out of the city and towards the countryside within the space of about 20 minutes. Being able to have that available to me is very important indeed.

I shall deftly sidestep your self-deprecating comments in the meantime, and point out that such misquoting resulted, one way or another, in your calling me housut, which I still remain rather pleased about.

Ha. That is good, young housut, for having a Finnish blogging id is a badge of honour to be pleased about indeed. I decided to go and google you (yes, "housut", naturally) before responding to you here - and up came page upon page of information, images, anecdotes, sewing and knitting instructions, and other interesting stuff (including porny songs on youtube by a band which bears your name - Housut pois ja hoitoon). All about you, I presume. I chose to link to a rather scholarly, if concise, entry. I strongly recommend you click on the "show" arrow in "Declension of housut", although it (shamefully) lists only fifteen of the seventeen cases of the noun "housut" (please don't ask me to list the other two. I can, of course, it's just a little bit painful to dig them out of my memory), probably because it's one of the national pastimes of Finns to gloat with and boast about the stupendous difficulty of their (worldwide-consideredly) infinitely useless language. Please note your name is easy-peasy, really, given it's only got the plural form (many others have twice the amount of declinations because of separate singular and plural), plus they have kept the matter simple by not going into what happens when possessive pronouns are introduced and one starts to talk about my housut or your housut or so on.

So there.

Yes, it is essential to at the very least know one can get out of the city relatively quickly, even if one doesn't do it. This is why I fail miserably at being happy in a city the size of London or something. Just. Too. Big. Takes forever of motorways to get even onto the outskirts. The certain knowledge of this seems to squeeze my brain, somehow. Funnily enough (the idea of) living in a land-locked country has the same effect - "idea of" because I've never tried it. Just. Too. Claustrophobic.

My word, now I feel I know all I ever need to know about my name (though I may pass on the band on youtube if you don't mind) - it may indeed take some time to digest before we get to the tricky business of possessive pronouns and the like. Thank you my dear for being a mine of information!